


Crossing the Rubicon

by Eshnoazot



Category: Young Dracula
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Depression, Mental Health Issues, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-27
Updated: 2013-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-30 12:47:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1018809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eshnoazot/pseuds/Eshnoazot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You will know you are the Chosen One when you sacrifice the life you love to save the family you love."</p><p>Vlad makes the choice.</p><p>He chooses wrong.</p><p>(Somehow, things turn out okay in the end.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crossing the Rubicon

**Author's Note:**

> "Crossing the Rubicon" : Deliberately proceeding past a point of no return.  
> "Alea iacta est" ("The die is cast"). Once the die or dice have been thrown, all bets are irrevocable, even before the dice have come to rest.

_"You will know you are the Chosen One when you sacrifice the life you love to save the family you love."_

 

* * *

It was inevitable, he would later acknowledge. His father had been right in his fearful apprehension of a slayer so close in their midst, and it had been his own naivety and stupidity that had practically handed an invitation to the slayers to their door. The ball, once a small annoyance but tolerable occasion had erupted into a dalliance with death as furniture was upended and a sole slayer cowered behind a table with his UV gun. He didn't need to be a vampire to know that the air was thick with desperation, but he could feel it beside him as Robin breathed heavily as adrenaline flooded his veins and he worried for the safety of his family.

Ingrid knelt on the floor, and he watched her as she shook with rage; hands filled with the ash of Will as vampires around her threw fireball after fireball towards the barricaded slayer. Hell had erupted and he could only stare in alarm as dawning horror infected his cells, the slayer ran out of UV bullets and his father laughed in victory.

"Well," The Count strode forwards with a flick of his cape, "We enjoyed your little fireworks display, but all good things must come to an end."

With a snarl, his father beckoned for Renfield, who scurried forward with all the courage of a rat.

"Including you!" Ingrid rose with grief clogging her words. Her eyes were empty, dull and full of nothing more than the utter desire to kill, crush, maim, and destroy that only the most grief-filled vampires ever managed to reach. In that second he knew that nothing left of Ingrid was there, but her reflection made of blood and revenge.

The distraction was enough for the slayer to throw a UV cage towards his father, as Renfield jumped forward and pulled the Count into an embrace that lasted only a second before the Count pushed him off furiously, with curses and anger. His father glanced around, trying to find a weak point but realizing quickly that the cage was too well constructed. The moment of victory for the slayer lasted less than that, as the rest of the vampires strode forward slowly with a snarl.

"You are so dead."

Ingrid's face; devoid of any warmth lead the pack, and Vlad's voice locked in his throat as he finally sorrowfully accepted that truly nothing left of his sister existed in the vampire about to rip out a man's throat. Suddenly, her companion exploded into dust, heralding the arrival of Jonathon and his dad, with his mother in tow.

"Nice shooting slayer!"

The room exploded with fruit costumes, disrupting the air enough to let Mr Van Helsing to toss a stake to the slayer. In his cage, his father watched in apprehension, and clear concern for only himself.

"Let's finish this."

Stake pointed straight at Ingrid's throat, she stared back in grief and anger and undisguised fury at the man who had murdered Will.

" _Wait don't do this! We can work something out! We- We don't- We."_

“It’s too late for that.”

Looking back on the situation, he'll still have no idea why his voice finally worked enough for him to stand up and plead for the lives of all involved. Maybe it had been Robin's desperate nudge, maybe his brain had finally caught up with the seriousness of the situation to make him realise that he had to try. But the dawning horror kept growing and he struggled with what to say, because he had no idea how to handle this situation and that was dangerous ignorance.

_You will know you are the Chosen One when you sacrifice the life you love to save the family you love."_

To his right, the ghostly spectre of the Grand High Vampire called out the familiar words, with a dare, a challenge hidden deep within the meaning of the phrase. It was if an unspoken prayer had been answered but the meaning of the help was just as bewildering in the face of the pure explosion of hatred that filled every crevice of the room. The words from the Grand High Vampire were nothing more than fortune cookie advice in the face of the declaration of war that had been announced as the first shot was fired. The slayers with vampires in their sights, and Robin cowering with the crown by Zoltan, and he could only wonder what family it was that he was suppose to save, because the creatures that once were his sister and father had long ago been lost to anger and grief and bloodlust.

And he froze, and didn't move until the stake had passed through Ingrid's chest and the bolt passed through the cage into his father's chest, and Robin thrust the crown into Vlad's hands before a stray shot hit his chest.

" _Alea iacta est._ " The Grand High Vampire muttered sorrowly, and suddenly Vlad knew that a choice had been made, and he had taken the wrong path.

And he ran.

 

* * *

It had been too much to ask of a 13 year old, he thinks later on, but somewhere deep in his chest he thinks about the beauty in the universe where he hadn't hesitated, where he hadn't given up his family in order to live the peaceful life he so desperately wanted. Only minutes after he had fled the ruins of his home in Stokely, he had felt the crushing blow as the blood mirror was smashed and he laughs in desperation before he realises that he still isn't a breather. He curls up against a tree and sobs because nothing is okay anymore and apparently being the chosen one makes you exempt from the unspoken consequences of the vampiric world.

At night he stays away and thinks of the world in which Ingrid is snapping at him and his Father throwing capes and coffin measurements on him while he tries to do his Geography homework, but every time he awakens the world is still colder and he has to accept that the world he wants can only exist in desperately painful daydreams. But in his waking world, he wanders around the country with a bag filled with a crown he never wanted, but with an even worse fear of what would happen if he lost it. Even though he is only 13, it isn't that difficult to travel; hypnotism becomes easier when you're under considerable stress, and your stomach is growling from hunger. Fireballs become easier too, eventually. Especially when he feels the knawing grief in his stomach and he stays away from towns and cities with only a campfire to dull his mind in.

The world doesn't change for the most part; the sun still shines and the moon still rises. The feeling of sunlight on his skin is something he once loved, but now every beam is connected to the painful dying screams of Ingrid and Count Dracula.

As wonders when he stopped referring to them as  _family_.

He sticks to the shadows, and night, and his world adjusts but the sunlight still welcomes him into her arms with silky words. _This is what you killed for_ , the sunlight whispers,  _the feeling of the sun over the feeling of an embrace_.

It is ridiculous how easily that hurts him, especially when he can't even remember either Ingrid or his father hugging him anyway.

The shadows welcome him though, although they are cold, as if they can sense the traitor in their midst. It is helpful however, because he hears things. Things about the vampire wars starting once more; the crown is lost but the position of power still remains and everyone wants to lead the vampire world, especially after the Death of such prominent families. Stories of the slayers sharpening their stakes and creating new technology that have been created to wipe out entire vampire cities.

 _'And soon the world  will change and even breathers will know that slayers and vampires are waging war on a scale not seen before',_  The street vampires remark uncomfortably, and there is no one who will be able to stop them.

Soon, he wonders, if there will be any breathers left.

 

* * *

He celebrates his 14th birthday, and then his 15th alone, and in silence and makes his way across half of Europe aimlessly because what do you do exactly when you have no reason anymore. He holds the crown at night with blistered hands and examines every curve and angle and _hates_ it. _Hates_ the fact that he is the chosen one, _hates_ the fact that the Grand High Vampire had died, _hates_ the fact that he is still alive while everyone he ever cared about is ash on the wind. Sometimes he sits and just hates the fact that he so clearly is a complete and utter failure, and how exactly can he be the chosen one when he failed his own test?

On his 16th birthday, he sits in the middle of a park before sunrise and feels his skin burn and smoke and he endures the agony before he realises that he _hurts so badly_ , but he isn't yet made of ash. He sits for hours and hours, and _burns_ but he still doesn't cry because he can't even care anymore, but cries when the sun goes down and he has created his own tolerance to sunlight.

He celebrates his miraculous survival by eating three loaves of garlic bread.

After this, he wanders down to France, and with a gnawing pain in his stomach, he drinks the blood of criminals and deludes himself into thinking that at least by eating these scum, that he was protecting the innocent and preserving peace.

The street-fangs welcome him into their midst, and he notices that there are more half-fangs than ever. They are traumatised and silent for the most part, but allow him into their warehouse and laugh and joke scathingly at his threadbare clothing and scraggly hair, and make jokes about his sire as the sun reaches the highest point in the sky.

“I wasn’t bitten and turned,” He mutters after they laugh at his tired face, and watches them fall silent in surprise as another man looks up with a snort.

“I suppose your family simply fell on hard times?” The older man dismisses him with self-importance lacing his words, as he clutches a book in his hands, “Are you a noble prince, or a pure-blooded heir? Or I suppose _a noble quest_ of grand majesty and admiration?”

“Vladimir Dracula,” he eventually says, only to be met with disbelieving laughter and mockery from those around him. He bares his fangs and hisses, and stands and swings the bag over his shoulder as their words slip through his armours and stab at his emotions, “And I certainly don’t need to explain myself to any of you.”

He leaves and walked straight through the sunlight to the gaping awe of the street fangs, and leaves with self-hatred crushing him down into the 13-year-old boy who ran away. He sits along the river until the sun is about to dip below the horizon, because he has no idea where to go now, and apparently even he is immune to the silvers of wood he pushes through his hand with desperation.

“Bertrand du Fortunesa,” A voice announces from behind him, “And you are the Chosen One. I’ve been looking for you for centuries, _your grandness_.”

The man from the warehouse is bowed, in the shade of a building with the book placed halfway between them both, and the expression of utter adoration makes him sick to his stomach.

“I’m not the chosen one,” Vlad eventually announces, “And I’ve been looking for myself for just as long.”

“And yet you sit in the sunlight with shades of wood pushed through your skin,” Bertrand announces, eying him strangely at the latter part of his words, “One may begin to see why I would question your word at this time.”

Vlad laughs hollowly, “I was told that ‘ _You will know you are the Chosen One when you sacrifice the life you love to save the family you love.’_ Obviously I can’t be the Chosen One if I failed the very test set to determine if I were he.”

“No,” Bertrand announces thoughtfully, “You will _know_ you are the chosen one- it says nothing about if you _ARE_ the chosen one, just simply when you will _accept_ it.”

He laughs even more bitterly and miserably, to such a degree that even the stranger looks unnerved by the depression clear in his voice, “What family do I have left to love?”

 

* * *

It is clear that neither truly trusts the other, but both of them have only the other to depend upon. Bertrand at first pushes him and pushes him to accept the crown, to accept the title of chosen one and to open his precious book and become more and more powerful, but eventually new requests start appearing _‘Please Vlad, eat something’, ‘Vlad, please talk to me’, ‘Vlad, you have to stop this self-destruction’_. Eventually Bertrand fades away until he simply watches his protégée sitting on the roof at noon with a hollow smile on his face that even the 400-year-old vampire doesn’t know how to deal with.

For all his talk of how he had prepared for hundreds of years to train the Chosen One, it seemed that he never considered having a fundamentally broken vampire as their charge. One swallowed so deep into melancholy and grief, which it grew increasingly difficult for him to even _move_.

“I don’t know how to help him Mori,” He catches Bertrand whisper into the phone late at night, “He won’t eat, he won’t sleep, and he’s behaving in a way I’d consider suicidal in any other vampire. We can’t exactly take him to a breather therapist, and you know just as well as I that the vampiric world doesn’t exactly acknowledge mental issues as _existing_.”

The vampire on the other end clearly had no idea either, for Bertrand sighed deeply and rubbed his head in gloom, “I’m worried about him. Slayings have arisen 70%, and the vampire world is breaking apart, but I cannot even get Vlad to eat breakfast. He’s falling apart, and I don’t know if I can do anything to help him.”

Vlad sighs and misses the next part of Bertrand conversation, but when the French Vampire returns, he’s tentively optimistic.

“A friend of mine received confirmation of your mother’s death, I’m sorry Vlad,” Bertrand hesitantly announces, as if the words will break him, “But-“

“But?” Vlad comments back because he can still speak.

“Her...partner is also dead, and she left behind a son- a half werewolf,” Bertrand frowns, “Mori has him now, but he is young and he won’t survive on his own.”

“A brother,” Vlad breathes, and he recoils in horror as he realises that he’s forgotten about that small child he had once contended with, “ _Where is he now_?”

Bertrand seems surprised by the conviction in his words, but offers a smile as he notes the fire coming back into his charges words, “Scotland.”

“Can you take us there?”

Bertrand looks less than interested about sharing the breathing space of a werewolf, but the determination is something he cannot resist in his passive charge, and he nods quickly, “Of course. As soon as sunset falls, we’ll go to him.”

Vlad watches Bertrand for a few seconds and laughs, “Do you know what this means Bertrand? I have family after all.”

The man nods back encouragingly, and shoved the seeds of doubt back down to where they came from.

* * *

 

The boy is frightened by everything at first, but Vlad seems to find company in the eyes of the young werewolf who had seen his mother staked and his father torn apart viciously. He clings to Vlad’s cape and jumps at the slightest of noises, and refuses to talk in any other method than quiet whispers into his brother’s ear. But As soon as Wolfie wraps his arms around Vlad, the elder Vampire lets out a heart-wrenching sob, and together they _heal_.

Wolfie smiles more after only a few weeks and Vlad launches into the role of parental guardian with grace and certainty, and slowly begins to accept sparring lessons in the guise of protecting his brother, and learns legalities as he formally takes custody of the boy.

(Bertrand soon quickly realises that Vlad will do anything if you can phrase it in a way that suggests a benefit to Wolfie.)

The world grows darker around them as breathers finally catch onto the war around them, and vampire numbers sky rocket as recruitment drives start- with consent or not- and breathers flock to slayer training camps and the world holds its breath to see what will happen in this new age of supernatural warfare.

(Vlad still walks in the sunlight, although the smoke no longer occurs, and even slayers don’t suspect that his pale skin hides his fangs.) He becomes the only person who leaves, as Bertrand becomes more concerned at the measures taken by breathers to ensure that vampires are choked. Battle lines are drawn and the old vampire rips a hole in an armchair as the news reports that new frontlines had been drawn; and Eastern Europe becomes the new land of the undead. As Vlad goes out to collect eggs, bread, and noodles, he watches as breathers grow more and more fearful as the werewolves declare their de-facto allegiance to the vampires as they become exposed and the zombies finally join the vampires, and the breathers soon become aware that it is _them_ , against the world.

(He tapes them, and he pretends that Vlad doesn’t notice and ignore it, like he isn’t promising to let the world burn in his absence.)

Even the witches appear, and seemingly betray their kin as they swarm amongst the undead and cause cloudy weather across the globe, allowing vampires to fill the streets.

(Breathers have UV scanners at every entrance, and Vlad cheerfully walks through them, as if he had not just crossed a line no vampire should have been _able_ to cross.)

In the end, he can do nothing to stop the slow and painful death of the world; it is a 5-year-old werewolf who looks up from under his dark lashes and fearfully asks, _“Are we all going to die, Vlad?”_

Something inside Vlad breaks.

* * *

_“_ I have to become the Grand High Vampire, don’t I? Because everything is falling apart, and if I don’t- Wolfie.” Vlad announces one day, while buttering toast carefully, “I’m _frightened_ Bertrand, because I know what it will be life if I put on that crown. I-“

Vlad pauses and hands Wolfie his breakfast, before he pulls his legs up and wraps his arms around them, looking every part the same boy he had met in France, so many months ago.

 _"You will know you are the Chosen One when you sacrifice the life you love to save the family you love,”_  Vlad suddenly announces, as if he has had an epiphany, “I have to leave this all behind, if I want to protect him, don’t I?”

“Only you can make that decision.” Bertrand responds, but cannot look anywhere but at his plate.

Vlad laughs; a pure laugh that makes his companions look at him in wonder and surprise as a whole new sound emerges from his lips, “I’m a complete and total idiot, aren’t I?”

“Yes,” Wolfie gravely responds, as Bertrand splutters out negatives.

“Well then,” Vlad announces as he reaches into his bag and jams the dusty crown onto his head, “I have a lot of time to make up for.”

 

* * *

The world is so much darker, but Vlad has known the dark, and knows how to make it better. The slayer don’t understand, but stick around, if only to keep any eye on him and try to understand why it is that he walks in the sun, and eats garlic and has a bad habit of playing with toothpicks near vulnerable skin.

Wolfie follows him bravely and the werewolves join Vlad’s new land of peace, if only because they see the start of a new age in the eyes of the sweet boy who whispers into his brother’s ear when stressed and clings to his capes like a lifeline.

Peace is always so much harder to achieve than war, but he makes it work and grows into the role that he should have fit when only a child. He re-builds the world, piece by piece and visits the gravestones of the people he never saw fall as they died.

Vlad still forgets to eat, and sits out on the roof at noon, but those days become less and less common as the world stops burning and follows the vampire who stands up straight and tall and announces an end to all war, and a new era of peace.

Because they _don’t_ have to do this, they _can_ work something out, and it _isn’t_ too late for that.

And Vlad stops running.


End file.
